


A Mile of Marchpane

by the_alchemist



Category: Archer's Goon - Diana Wynne Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:55:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/pseuds/the_alchemist
Summary: Hathaway's children, Will and Nan, discover the red typewriter, which has been stowed away in the 16th century for safe-keeping. When their sticky misadventures lead to Nan's disappearance, Will summons help. It arrives in the form of Time-travelling International Master Criminals Awful and Erskine, whose malefactory careers are currently being hampered by a brotherly curse which means they cannot commit any wrongdoing that leads to more harm than good ...





	A Mile of Marchpane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenlily/gifts).



‘Oh,’ said Will. ‘It is another Caxton!’

‘Fetch it down,’ said Nan. ‘I cannot hold thee for aye. God-a-mercy, it is weightier than the last.’

She staggered down to her knees and let Will off her shoulders, shaking them to loosen the muscles.

Will’s hands were black with dust from the top of the attic wardrobe as he held out the red device for her to inspect.

‘Th’art blacker than a sweep,’ she said. ‘And a great lubber withal. Go wash, lad.’

He scampered off, as she inspected the device. It was different from the first one: had more of the look that she had come to associate with objects from the future, but otherwise was much the same. She took her commonplace book from the pocket hanging at her waist and ripped out a centre page, using the levers to roll it through, as father had taught her with the last one.

 _job a righteous man of uz waxed poor quickly_ , she typed. Good. The ink was nice and black. The last one had stopped working when it had run out, and father didn’t allow them to ask his secretary for fripperies from the future.

She wondered why he had been so careful to hide this though, when he had let the other be their plaything for weeks.

 _Nan Moneypenny, her press_ , she typed next, and suddenly felt a great weight upon her shoulders, heavier than Will had been.

‘What ails thee?’ said Will, running back in.

‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she moaned, and fell to her knees.

‘Nan?’ Then he spotted that the paper in the Caxton. ‘Huh,’ he said, and typed: _a patient sister waiteth for her brother_. ‘The angels punish thee for thy intemperate haste,’ he said piously.

Still Nan moaned. Will began to look frightened. He stared up at the heavens. ‘Forgive her?’ he said.

Suddenly, Nan had an idea. ‘Print “stop pressing Nan”,’ she said.

Will looked at her dubiously, but did as he was told. At once the weight lifted.

Nan stood up, shaking her shoulders again.

‘Art thou quite well?’ Will asks.

Nan frowned at him, angry, though she knew it was not at all his fault. ‘Aye, well enough,’ she said, massaging the muscles. ‘But what a strange and wonderful thing …’ She smiled, a world of possibilities opening up in her mind.

* * *

Awful polished off another doughnut in three mouthfuls as she wrote the last sentence of her history homework. ‘… and in conclusion, no definite conclusions can be drawn.’ She had finished all her history essays that way for the past six months, ever since Quentin had seen her do it for the first time and told her she made an excellent historian. Besides, it annoyed Mr Hill, and mildly irritating her teachers was about as much evil as she could manage since she had been Cursed.

As she stood up, one of the buttons on her school skirt shot across the room with a ping. Progress. Good. Until she broke the Curse, she would be unable to be as evil as Shine, so she was concentrating on becoming as fat as Shine instead.

She went downstairs to find a safety pin, getting to the hall just in time to hear the key in the lock, and see Erskine’s big stubby hand silhouetted against the glass as he pushed it open.

Howard tutted as he walked past to the kitchen, waving his hand and making the smudgy mark disappear. He had already made it so the glass wouldn’t break. He really was the worst.

‘Homework?’ said Erskine.

‘Done,’ said Awful.

‘Good,’ said Erskine. ‘Graffiti?’

‘Yes.’

It was her new theory. She had decided that the way to break the Curse that Howard had laid on her – that she could not commit crime without doing creating more good than harm, more order than chaos, and that she could not even attempt crime until she had finished her homework – was to start small. She didn’t have as much power as him, of course. She didn’t even have as much as Erskine, but she did have a little tiny bit, and she was certain that alongside her natural cunning, it would be enough.

They stomped off towards the bus shelter.

The previous day she had tried to write rude words, but the marker pen had mysteriously run out of ink, even though it was nearly new. Today she would take it down a notch, while Erskine stood guard.

‘My brother is …’ she began. That came out fine, although in a prettier handwriting than she normally did. She already knew that swear words didn’t work, so she tried ‘silly’, but the pen slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. She growled at it.

‘OK’ was her next attempt. That worked. She stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘My brother is OK’. Well, it was criminal damage, at least. That was progress. She was just lifting the pen to see whether she could add ‘I guess’ or even ‘but’, when she felt a strange tugging.

She turned in alarm just in time to see Erskine vanish before everything went black and she was Somewhere Else.

An attic, by the looks of things, dimly lit by a few small windows and one candle, with lots of very solid looking furniture in dark wood, covered in blobs of something yellow, sticky and squishy. The sticky stuff was on the floor too, and she was ankle deep in … earth? No, _cake_ , by the look of it. And was that the imprint of a horse’s hoof? There was a strong smell of almonds and honey.

Movement behind her. Erskine. He stuck his stubby finger into the yellow stuff, scooped up a blob, sniffed it and ate. ‘Marzipan,’ he said. ‘Good.’

She felt herself grinning. Wherever this place was, she liked it. She took a step forward, enjoying the weird sucking sound the cake made when she lifted her sole. On a big coffer, carved with flowers, there was a very familiar object indeed: the red typewriter.

And by it was a small typewritten page, which said the following:

 

> _job a righteous man of uz waxed poor quickly_
> 
> _Nan Moneypenny, her press_
> 
> _a patient sister waiteth for her brother_
> 
> _Stop pressing Nanne_
> 
> _There shall be cake and cordial_
> 
> _There shall be a mile of marchpane_
> 
> _There shall be honeycomb_
> 
> _but the bEes be gOPne. GONNE I mean_
> 
> _the hurt stoppeth_
> 
> _a suit of armour to fit my self_
> 
> _a good pony, whyte wyth a black mane_
> 
> _not in the attic, in the stables_
> 
> _the hurt stoppeth_
> 
> _and the pony shall not kick again_
> 
> _If we print that which will hurt, it shall not go forth_
> 
> _Take me to dance with a comely prince_
> 
> _Bring Nanne back_
> 
> _Bring her back now_
> 
> _Now bring Nanne_
> 
> _Help._

Just as she was putting these words together to form some kind of story, there was a clank and a cough, and she knew they were not alone. What she had taken for half a discarded suit of armour in the corner, was in fact a discarded boy, wearing half a suit of armour. He clanked clumsily out into the centre of the room, where there was more light.

As the helmet wasn’t part of the remaining armour, she saw – and immediately recognised – his face. ‘You’re Hathaway’s boy,’ she said. ‘Will? Yes?’

His face crinkled in what might have been puzzlement, and might have been wanting to burst into tears. Then he said something in the unintelligible accent of the past.

‘Erskine?’ she said. ‘Can you do the thing, please?’

‘Do the thing,’ said Erskine, and clapped his hands. Neither of them quite understood what the thing was, but it seemed to enable mutual understanding, between different languages as well as between different kinds of English.

‘Who are you?’ said Will.

‘We are international master criminals,’ said Awful loftily. She paused and looked around. ‘Time-travelling international master criminals,’ she added.

‘Not very good at it,’ commented Erskine.

‘Uncle Erskine!’ said Will, clearly happy to see a familiar face, even if it was Erskine’s. ‘You must be the help I asked for! Nan’s disappeared.’

And he told them what had happened, using lots of unnecessary words to narrate a story that the paper told quite well on its own.

This put Awful in a tricky situation. She liked all of Hathaway’s family, and wanted to get Nan back, but wasn’t sure it was a fitting activity for a time-travelling international master criminal. Then she had an idea. ‘She’s with a prince, you say? Erskine, dear, why don’t we go and find her and kidnap the prince at the same time? I bet the Curse doesn’t extend to the past.’

She grabbed Erskine’s hand and bit it, hard. ‘You see?’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s actual bodily harm!’

‘Ow,’ said Erskine.

Will was staring at them.

‘Which prince?’ Erskine asked. ‘Need to know to find him.’

Will looked at the paper. He was very little. He didn’t look much older than he had five years ago, when they saw him last. Perhaps time passed at a different rate here. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, miserably.

‘Well,’ said Awful. ‘What princes are there?’

‘Prince Edward?’ suggested Will. ‘He’s heir to the throne.’

Awful wished she’d paid more attention in history lessons. Were there any more princes hanging around England in Henry VIII’s time? She concluded that there weren’t any definite conclusions to be drawn.

‘Other countries,’ said Erskine.

That was true. Other times, too. There was no reason why Nan couldn’t have gone backwards or forwards in time just as they had. Maybe she was in the twentieth century, jigging around with Prince Phillip or Prince Charles. Not that either of them were comely.

‘Try the typewriter,’ Will said. It was strange. She heard ‘typewriter’ clearly, but the way his lips moved, he seemed to be saying a shorter word.

Still, it was a good idea. She leant over, rolled the paper back in, and used her two index fingers to type on keys sticky with marzipan:

‘Now you tell us which prince Nan is with.’

If she had been expecting anything, it was for the typewriter to continue coming out with words after she finished typing. But there was a weird, gloopy sucking sound, and instead it was the marzipan that formed the big, sticky letters on the wall. E. D. W. A. R. D.

Awful tried to recall all she could about Henry VIII’s son. She had seen a film about him once on a Sunday afternoon, but all she remembered was Errol Flynn running about with a sword, and the fact that he had a ‘whipping boy’ who got punished instead of Edward whenever he was naughty. She hadn’t been able to decide what she thought about that.

‘Hold hands,’ said Erskine. ‘We go now.’

‘I’m coming too,’ said Will, grasping both of their hands tightly in his little ones.

Awful hesitated, a rare protective instinct coming over her. But she supposed that without a familiar face, they might not be able to persuade Nan to come with them. She herself didn’t count because she had changed so much since she saw Nan before, and although Erskine’s face might be familiar to Nan as it was to Will, it wasn’t exactly a comforting one.

‘Close eyes,’ said Erskine.

She kept them open, of course, to see what happened, but there was only a bright flash of light, which hurt a bit, before they were somewhere else again: a little room with a little window set in the thickest wall she had ever seen.

The first thing that struck her was the cold. There was no fire in the grate, no glass in the window and no rug on the floor. There wasn’t anything but a bed with yellowish sheets, and three children disco-dancing enthusiastically to a song sang by the tallest of them, whom Awful recognised instantly as Nan. ‘Pastimes with good cuh-uh-uh-pany’ she belted out, ‘I love, and shall, until I la lah! Youth must some-thing, la la la la! I wish I could remeh-eh-ember the words!’

Despite the volume and missing lyrics, she had quite a lovely voice, and the incongruity between the musing and the dancing (Torquil’s influence, no doubt) made Awful grin so much that she felt a little regretful when Nan saw them and stopped, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh, Will, thank goodness. I was starting to worry that I wouldn’t be able to get back. Why didn’t you just type me home? But I’m glad you’re here. This is Edward–’

The taller of the two boys bowed. He wasn’t dressed much like a prince. He only wore a shirt and long, thick socks. He had reddish blond hair, and a thin, solemn face.

She had decided a few years ago that she was a republican, so she didn’t bow.

‘… and this is Dickon.’

The smaller one had lighter hair, and big blue eyes. Awful wondered whether he was the whipping boy.

‘Uncle Erskine!’ She ran up and hugged him. ‘What are you doing here? And who is this?’ She looked Awful up and down, no doubt admiring her impressive girth.

‘I’m Awful,’ she said. ‘We met five years ago, but I was much littler then. We’ve come to bring you home.’ Then, remembering that she was a time-travelling international master criminal, she stopped smiling, and instead looked stern. ‘And you’re coming with us too,’ she said to Edward.

To her surprise, he nodded eagerly. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And Dickon too? Mother said I was always to look after him.’

Awful looked at the smaller boy. He was perhaps about seven. ‘Please can I come too?’ he said.

‘I suppose so,’ she said, beginning to get a terrible feeling that Howard’s Curse was unfurling its tendrils through time as well as space.

Footsteps on the stairs. Dickon ran to Edward and put his arms around the bigger boy, but Erskine was already taking both their hands, so Awful made them all join in a circle, and this time she closed her eyes as they got jolted back into Hathaway’s attic.

It was not empty.

Hathaway himself was there, pacing about through the cake and marzipan.

‘God have mercy,’ he said, as they all appeared around him. He took in their faces. ‘Nan? Will? Thank the Lord you are safe. Erskine! And … Awful? You’re looking …’ He trailed off staring in disbelief at the other two boys. The word he muttered might have been ‘fine’ and it might have been ‘Shine’. Either way, Awful was pleased. He coughed, and spoke properly again. ‘And who are these fine young men?’

Dickon had his arms round Edward again. Both of them looked pale.

‘This,’ said Awful, grandly, ‘is the future Edward the Sixth of England.’ She did not say she had kidnapped him, in part because she didn’t want Hathaway to interfere with her plan, but mostly – she now realised – because she did not have a plan.

‘Fifth,’ said Edward quietly.

Awful stared at him.

‘Edward the _Fifth_ of England,’ he said. ‘And not future, present. I haven’t been crowned, but I’m still a king.’ He stood up a little straighter, and jutted his chin out defiantly.

Slowly, a smile crept over Hathaway’s face. ‘The princes in the tower,’ he said. ‘Goodness me, Nan, the things you get up to when I am not around.’

That was one bit of history Awful _did_ know. The young king and his brother had been locked up in the Tower of London, never to be seen again. Some people thought their uncle, Richard III, had murdered them, but in conclusion, no conclusive conclusions could be concluded.

Her heart sank. It hadn’t been a kidnapping, but a rescue.

‘… well, boys,’ Hathaway was saying. ‘You will be safe here. No crown for you, I’m afraid, but no early grave either.’

‘It is my duty to take the throne,’ Edward began. ‘Even if I die, I must–’

But Hathaway held up his hand. ‘It is always the duty of the big brother to look after the little one,’ he said gently. ‘That is what your mother told you, isn’t it?’

Edward looked down at Dickon, swallowed, and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Now,’ said Hathaway, looking around him, ‘let us all go down to the parlour. I will send for some spiced wine, and you, young lady–’ He frowned at Nan with mock severity, ‘can explain the marzipan to me.’

* * *

‘Poor Awful,’ said Venturus as he waved his hand to turn off the image of her teaching the younger prince how to play cat’s cradle. People could safely stay with Hathaway for half a day now, thanks to him.

‘Poor Awful,’ Ginger agreed. ‘I can’t wait to see what she tries next.’

Venturus’s bedroom was four times the size it had been previously, though it still fitted in the same place in Catriona and Quentin’s house. It was done up to resemble the bridge of a space ship. The two boys reclined in the pilot and co-pilot seats, and the screen was where the window would be.

They were students, both just home for the summer holiday. Sometimes Venturus thought the décor was a bit childish, but mostly he only thought he ought to think that.

The screen came back on. Funny. He hadn’t done anything. At first he thought it was Awful’s face that came flickering into focus, but no. Those cold, dark eyes were the original, not the copy. ‘Shine?’ He thought he did a good job of keeping the incredulity out of his voice.

She grinned, her big fleshy jowls defying gravity. ‘Little brother,’ she said. ‘With twice the gifts of the rest of us.’ She paused for dramatic effect, then loosened the smile and widened her eyes. ‘But not, I note, twice the gifts of the rest of us _put together_.’

‘I learned something today.’ Her voice took on the tone of those weird bits at the end of children’s TV where they tell you the moral. ‘I learned that wonderful things can happen when you co-operate. Oh yes, little brother. Quite some time ago we managed to put our differences aside – temporarily, of course – and figure out a way of coming back. Even little Fifi helped. She has grown into quite an extraordinary young woman. You’ll see what I mean soon, but in the meantime, here is a little taster of what is to come …’

Venturus had already half risen by the time the front door banged open and he heard Awful’s voice, half singing, half shouting, ‘we did it we did it we did it we robbed a baaaaank! And it didn’t turn out well for anyone but us.’

Keeping an outward composure, he walked onto the landing and saw Awful and Erskine dancing round in circles together, ten pound notes falling out of their pockets.

He closed his eyes. It was going to be a long summer.

* * *

And in a small village near the river Euphrates, a middle-aged gentleman called Mr Job, with a reputation for kindness and wisdom, somewhat to his own surprise as well as that of his neighbours, opened a beauty parlour, which became renowned for treatments to remove body hair both quickly and cheaply.

**Author's Note:**

> “Job a Righteous man of uz waxed poor Quickly" is a pangram (a sentence using all the letters of the alphabet) which children in early modern England used to practice their handwriting.


End file.
